


The Kaedweni Trail

by frankenberger



Series: Ballads for the White Wolf [3]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Deviates From Canon, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Such a cute family they make, a little dirty talk, jaskier loves geralt, no smut in this one, nothing major, pure fluff, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:14:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22677748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frankenberger/pseuds/frankenberger
Summary: On the long journey between Novigrad and the Witcher's Keep, there were very few opportunities for Geralt and Jaskier to spend any time alone. But there were more important things to worry about. A child of destiny, and the making of a family.A few mismatched little interludes following my previous taleThe Heart of a Poetbefore the Witcher, his bard and his child surprise reach Kaer Morhen.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Ballads for the White Wolf [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1603636
Comments: 15
Kudos: 342





	1. Chapter 1

The campfire crackled merrily, still burning hot and bright even though the moon was creeping towards its zenith. The Witcher had grumbled about stoking the fire so high, complaining that the blaze was as good as a beacon for any bandits in the vicinity. Besides, it was a waste of wood. They’d have to douse the coals in the morning, lest a stray spark set the whole forest alight. 

Jaskier had brushed his complaints aside, preferring to air his own grievances about the numbness of his poor limbs and his fear of losing his valuable and skilled fingers to the icy cold wind. Ciri didn’t mind the fire either, as she was proud of having gathered so much suitable wood when they stopped to make camp.

“Throw another log on there, my dear girl.” Jaskier said, strumming idly on his lute as he warmed his bare toes by the hot coals. “You can’t expect another song if my voice seizes up from the chill.”

“Leave the fire alone, Ciri.” Geralt interjected. “And I think that’s enough singing for the night. We’ve got a long road to travel tomorrow if we want to reach Ban Gleán by nightfall.”

“Jaskier said he’d sing the one about the fishmonger’s daughter,” Ciri said, poking at the fire with a long stick.

Geralt shot an unimpressed glance at the bard, who pretended not to notice. Ciri and the bard were getting along better than he had hoped, but he was damned if he was going to let Jaskier corrupt the girl. His more boisterous compositions were pure innuendo, and entirely unsuitable for a child. “All the more reason for a little peace and quiet.” 

“I never promised to sing that one,” Jaskier protested. “Geralt, you’re such a crotchety bastard.”

Geralt scowled, making a mental note to repay Jaskier for that insult when they had a chance. It was hard to find time alone, when the young princess was always within earshot. He and Jaskier hadn’t so much as held hands since they left Novigrad. 

“You make such an odd pair,” Ciri observed suddenly, frowning absently as she stared at the campfire. “You’re so different. Like oil and vinegar.”

Jaskier laughed. “I must be the oil, because sour old Geralt is clearly the vinegar.”

“I’m sure you’ve been close to people who were different to you,” Geralt said, ignoring Jaskier. He remembered seeing Ciri in disguise in the streets of Cintra, playing knucklebones with a band of ruffians. “Lower nobles, or even commoners.”

“They weren’t really friends.” Ciri said, matter-of-factly. “They only liked me for my crown.”

“What a coincidence, I only like Geralt for his sword.” Geralt kicked Jaskier in the shin, and he yelped in surprise. “He’s saved my life a time or two, is all.”

“Jaskier is…” Geralt took a moment to think. It was a long moment, as both the bard and the young princess turned to him expectantly. What was Jaskier, exactly? 

Geralt used to think him a leech, sucking the lifeblood of his adventures for a handful of coin and the acclaim of the crowd. He was a pest, creating havoc and chaos everywhere he went, but he was also a light in Geralt’s dreary days. Someone who would compliment his bravery and heroism in a world where people would rather spit on him than pay him his due. He had to admit that Jaskier was devastatingly handsome, especially when his face lit up with the boyish glee and optimism he always seemed to have in surplus. Jaskier was also a very good kisser and outstanding in bed, even though they’d only coupled a few times.

Geralt cleared his throat. What was Jaskier? “Jaskier is my friend.”

At the words, the troubadour clutched at Geralt’s shoulder rapturously and uttered a pained whimper. “Oh, Witcher. Say it again.”

Geralt leaned close, addressing Jaskier in a low whisper. “Control yourself, bard, or I’ll toss you in the river to cool you off.”

Jaskier laughed merrily, tilting his head toward the Witcher. Ever so close. “Only if you join me later for a swim. You could use a bath.”

“Such an odd pair,” Ciri reiterated. She tossed a small log onto the fire, causing sparks to fly up into the clear and moonlit sky. “But I like it. Even if I can’t understand it.”

“I’m sure you will, one day.” Geralt reached out his hand, in the shadows beyond the flickering light of the fire. Jaskier took it, their cool palms touching. Their fingers intertwined, a momentary intimacy that raised goosebumps on the Witcher’s skin.

“One last song?” Jaskier asked, squeezing Geralt’s hand tightly.

“I suppose,” Geralt conceded. “But something clean. Keep your ribald ditties to yourself, you degenerate.”


	2. Chapter 2

Ciri was screaming in her sleep, and not for the first time. For a change, Jaskier was the first to rouse, to hasten to her side and calm her fevered brow, whisper calming words into her ear.

The young princess’s eyes opened, already streaming with tears. “The knight with the winged helmet,” she whispered, her entire body shaking with fear. “He found me, he took me.”

Jaskier brushed a lock of her long pale hair away from her face, hearing the mild rustle as Geralt, now awake, clambered out of his bedroll. “You’re safe, Cirilla. It was just a bad dream.”

“I screamed and screamed,” Ciri continued, her words becoming increasingly frantic. “But he didn’t fall. The horse kept going. I couldn’t stop him, Jaskier.”

She reached up to Jaskier. He gathered her into a hug, overwhelmed by sympathy for the poor girl, and she sobbed against his chest. “Where we’re going, the knight with the winged helmet will never find you.”

“But what if he does?” Ciri asked, her words muffled against his shirt.

“If he does, you’ll be ready.” The Witcher arrived, crouching beside them. His voice was low and soothing. “We’ll fight him off together. He should be afraid of us, not the other way around.”

Ciri sniffed. “You really think so?”

“You’ll have a whole band of Witchers to stand by your side,” Jaskier said, feeling a tinge of bitterness in his words. He would protect this girl until the ends of the earth, but who was he kidding? He wasn’t a fighter. He wasn’t ageless, or strong.

“And you?” Ciri said, clinging to Jaskier with a bruising intensity. “Will you be there?”

He was touched, and felt the sting of tears as they rose in his eyes. “Always,” he said, hoping he could make it the truth by wishing hard enough. “I’ll never leave you.”

“We’re family now,” Geralt said, locking eyes with the bard. “We’ll always be there for you, I promise.”

Jaskier looked at him, his lips brimming with words he could not yet say. Geralt was a man of his word, but some things were beyond even his control. Closing his eyes, he held the princess tight. He would always protect her, for as long as he lived. Anything else was for destiny to decide.


	3. Chapter 3

“Where has Geralt gone?” Ciri asked, watching as Jaskier knelt under an old tree and rummaged in the underbrush. He was humming the beginnings of a new composition, a bawdy little tune about the Witcher’s considerable assets. Still in the making, but very promising.

The Witcher had left the bard to mind the little princess while he went hunting. He claimed it was for her safety, but Jaskier was smart enough to know what was going on. Geralt clearly had a deep affection for the youngster, and wanted Jaskier to forge a similar, parental bond with the girl. He had never been the fatherly type, but Jaskier wanted to do justice to the gesture. He could show he was just as good a provider as the Witcher.

“Geralt is hunting up our dinner, little lion. A hare or two, or perhaps a partridge. And don’t make faces at me.” Jaskier had seen a glimpse of something, hiding within the camouflage of windblown leaves, long grass and weeds. Something wonderful.

“I’m not,” Ciri protested. The bard glanced back at her, just to see the look of disgust cross her features. She wasn’t fond of eating in the wilderness, much more used to the comforts of Cintra’s royal keep. He couldn’t blame her. Years later, he was still dreaming of the buffet at Princess Pavetta’s wedding feast.

“I’ll cook us up a treat even you can’t refuse. Hare with wild garlic and… Aha!” Triumphant, the bard waved his prize in her face. 

She scowled at the brown-capped mushroom, unimpressed.

“Porcini mushrooms,” Jaskier explained. “A whole trove of them. Nature smiles upon us, my dear Ciri!”

“I didn’t know you could cook.” Ciri sat down beside him, tired of standing around and gawking.

“One must make do, when one travels the wilds with Geralt of Rivia.” Jaskier opened his satchel and started stuffing it with his bounty of porcini mushrooms. “I’m a lot better at cooking than him, at least. He’s content with simply roasting squirrels on a spit.”

Ciri picked up a stick from the ground beneath her legs and threw it away. “Yuck.”

“Squirrels are quite delicious, compared to the other beasts that roam this land. Would you rather dine on giant centipedes, or the flesh of a bloodthirsty cockatrice? The life of a Witcher is hardly glamorous, poppet.”

“When I am a Witcher, my pockets shall always be full of coin.” Ciri’s voice was full of certainty. “And my saddlebags shall always be full of food.”

Jaskier chuckled, closing the flap of his satchel carefully. “And your sword shall always run red with the blood of your enemies.” He climbed to his feet, reaching out a hand to help Ciri up. “You’re quite determined to be a Witcher, aren’t you?”

She brushed the dirt from her cloak. “I was promised to Geralt, and he is a Witcher. So I’ll be a Witcher too, and I’ll never be afraid again. It’s my destiny, Jaskier.”

Jaskier blinked at her. He was surprised at how calmly she accepted the machinery of fate, and wished he could be so positive about his future. The bard still believed that a thread of fate tied him to the Witcher, but that was nothing compared to the silver chains binding Geralt to the princess and his wayward sorceress. His thread could snap at a moment’s notice, and he would be set adrift with nothing left to cling to. He turned back toward the tree where he had tied up his horse.

“Do you love him?” Ciri asked suddenly.

A startled laugh escaped from Jaskier’s lips. “Who? Geralt? I don’t know where you… Honestly, we’re just…” He placed his palm against the rough bark of the tree. “Is it really so obvious?”

“You write a great many songs about him,” Ciri said quietly. “I know a love song when I hear it. Also, I have eyes to see how you look at him.”

Ciri was prone to these unerring bursts of insight. Jaskier wondered if she would be helpful in a game of dice, although Geralt would skin him alive if he took her gambling.

“You’ll lose your eye for love when you become a Witcher.” Jaskier grasped his horse’s reins and tugged, leading him toward the narrow gap between the trees. The grove of trees was too dense to ride. “Witchers don’t love anything.”

Ciri followed along, ducking under branches as they emerged onto the overgrown dirt trail. “Geralt does,” she protested. “In his way.”

“He told you about Yennefer of Vengerberg, did he?” Jaskier scoffed, keeping an eye on the path ahead. It would turn sharply to the left up ahead, he recalled, followed by a rolling hill as the trees began to thin. Their campsite wasn’t far.

“Briefly,” she replied. “We looked for her a while on the scorched hills of Sodden, but he was eager to move on before nightfall. He knew she’d show up, sooner or later.”

“See, what did I tell you? Typical Geralt.” Jaskier kicked a stone along the path. “Yennefer is his fate, but it doesn’t sound like love if he wasn’t willing to seek her to the ends of the earth.”

Ciri stopped him, tugging on his sleeve. “Do you know why he was in such a hurry to continue north, Jaskier?”

Jaskier didn’t have the faintest clue. Knowing Geralt, he was trying to protect the girl from the ghouls that would come to eat the dead. Maybe he just got bored of wandering about on the battlefield.

“He talked mostly about you,” Ciri continued. “He wanted to make sure you were safe in Redania. He wanted to protect you.”

“Oh.” Jaskier blushed. “That’s flattering, if a little emasculating.”

The bard heard the crackle of a breaking branch on the left-hand path, hidden behind the dense foliage. Someone was coming. With a swift instinct he never knew he possessed, he urged Ciri to hide behind him. She would be protected there, between himself and the heavy flank of his horse. He was unarmed, but he would fight bare-fisted if he had to. He would protect his little lion cub.

“Who’s that?” Jaskier asked, his voice shaking. 

A shape emerged, rounding the corner with slow and limping steps. Dressed in a shoud of rags, leaning upon a gnarled wooden staff. Lifting her hood, she revealed a face that was withered and leathery, like a fallen apple gone to rot. Her hair was a tangled mess of silver, and her eyes were milky with cataracts.

“Good day to you, kind sir.” She squinted at the bard and his horse. “And your little miss, too.”

Ciri poked her head out from behind Jaskier to peer at the old woman.

“Good afternoon, dear madam.” Jaskier said, never one to forget his manners, especially with curious strangers who appear mysteriously in the depths of the woods and appear to be able to see through horses. “It’s a good day for a stroll. Be careful you don’t get lost, the path is winding and narrow and dusk travels fast.”

“A proper gentleman you are,” the old woman remarked in a raspy and low voice as she moved closer. Her grasp of the common tongue was imperfect, and her accent was strange. “Gallant and handsome, in your fine clothes. Spare you a coin, that I might afford a bed to rest my tired bones?”

Jaskier opened his mouth, already prepared to make some polite excuse. He had barely any money left after buying supplies for this expedition, and he was hardly about to give it over to a random beggar in the woods. Before he could speak, Ciri kicked him in the shin.

“My friend can spare a coin,” the princess said, her voice high and nervous. “Can’t you, bard?”

Jaskier was confused and a little bit annoyed, but he decided to trust Ciri’s instincts. “Of course, my dear woman.” He reached into his pocket and took out his last few coppers, placing them in the woman’s outstretched palm.

“Such a generous young man.” the crone replied, opening her mouth to reveal a distinct lack of teeth. She crouched down slightly, her hunched position bringing her down to Ciri’s level. She studied the girl with a mischievious twinkle in her clouded eyes. “But it is such a long walk to the inn, and I am afraid I shall lose myself on this winding path. A bite to eat would restore my strength. Spare you a crust of bread, little miss?”

Jaskier’s brow furrowed at the nerve of the old beggar. Give some people an inch, and they’d ask for a mile. Ciri, however, did not seem phased. “Your satchel, friend.” She said to Jaskier, in a low and calm voice. As if warning him not to argue.

He sighed and opened the flap of his bag, allowing Ciri to rummage around inside. After a moment’s search, she lifted out the mushrooms the bard had sought so hard to scavenge, and deposited them in the beggar’s cupped hands. “Porch mushrooms,” she said.

“Porcini,” Jaskier corrected.

“Such a polite little girl,” the woman smiled again, and straightened as much as she was able. “Blessings on you, my dear.” She tucked the mushrooms into a pocket of her cloak. “And blessings on your handsome friend, too. Fare thee well.”

Jaskier bowed slightly, a stiff inclination of his head. “Fair travels to you, madam,” he said, and led the horse onwards.

He felt the prickling sensation of the old woman’s eyes on them as they passed by, but only once made a motion to turn back. Ciri, who walked by his side, murmured under her breath. “Don’t look.”

Time passed with infinite slowness as they rounded the corner and started the trek up the hill, out of the forest. They were nearly back to the campsite when the feeling of being observed faded away.

“Are you going to tell me why we gave all our food and money to that old woman?” Jaskier asked suddenly, breaking the silence.

“There was something wrong about that woman, Jaskier.” Ciri said. “And I know you felt it too.”

“Old people are all shriveled up and they smell funny.” Jaskier replied. “But that’s no reason to fear them.”

Ciri shook her head. “Mousesack told me a tale once about a beggar who roamed the wilderness, some unearthly being wearing the guise of a human. This beggar doled out curses to the greedy, and blessings to the generous. If she was just a crone, we gave her a meal and a few coins in her purse. But if she wasn’t?”

Jaskier shuddered. He had been cursed before, when a malicious djinn stole his voice. It was an adventure, but not one he would happily revisit. “You’re a clever girl, Ciri.” He said, reaching out to ruffle her long hair. “I am a bit upset about the mushrooms, though. It’s almost impossible to find them at this time of year.”

“We’ll make do,” said Ciri. “Even if it is just squirrels roasted over the fire.”

Up ahead, Jaskier could see a thin column of smoke rising on the breeze. Geralt was back. The bard felt a leaping in his chest, as he always did. He really was hopelessly in love with the Witcher, he had to admit.

“I was wondering if I’d have to go searching for you two,” Geralt said as they approached, rummaging in his saddlebags.

“We were just on a jolly walk in the forest, weren’t we?” Jaskier said. “A completely non-eventful walk.”

“How was your hunting?” Ciri asked, noting that there were no dead animals hanging from the Witcher’s saddle.

Geralt grunted. “I happened upon a drowner, terrorising some poor girl down by the stream. It was quick enough to dispatch.”

Jaskier screwed up his face. “We can’t eat a drowner.”

“Of course not.” The Witcher pulled a small pouch from his saddlebag and tossed it at the bard, who caught it deftly. It was heavy, and jingled in the most satisfying way. Jaskier opened it, grinning at the glint of gold inside. “But the girl’s parents were wealthy farmers, and overjoyed to see her alive.”

“I’d call us blessed.” Ciri nudged Jaskier in the ribs, jovially. “But we can’t eat gold either.”

“A problem easily solved.” Geralt said, lifting a sack from the back of his saddle and brandishing it high. “Bread, fresh cheese and ham, and the farmer wishes us good appetite. Honey cakes too, for my Ciri.”

“A purse full of gold, and saddlebags full of food.” Ciri smirked at Jaskier, who recalled her earlier dreams of Witcher glory. Such a clever girl, if a little too smug for her own good.

“A blessing indeed,” agreed the bard, and crouched down beside the girl to wrap her in an affectionate hug.

“You two are certainly getting along,” said Geralt. “Are you sure your walk was uneventful?”

Ciri started laughing, and Jaskier joined in. Geralt was pleased that his child of destiny and his bard had formed some sort of connection. Eventually even he began to laugh, although he didn’t know what was so funny. It just seemed like the thing to do.


	4. Chapter 4

Jaskier climbed off the bay gelding, groaning at the ache in his limbs from a long day on horseback. “To hell with all of this riding,” he said, stretching out his legs. “What I wouldn’t give for a drink. Geralt, why don’t we tap one of those kegs of Kaedweni stout?”

Geralt, who had dismounted from Roach and was helping Ciri from the saddle, scowled. “The beer isn’t for you, Jaskier. Nor is the Erveluce, before you ask. They’re gifts for the Witcher’s Keep, a meager compensation for having to put up with your nonsense all winter.”

“Where’s the compensation for putting up with your sullen demeanor, Geralt?”’ Jaskier settled his hands against his waist and arched backwards, relishing the release of tension in his lower back. “That would warrant a cellar full of Redanian lager, at least.”

Ciri pulled at Geralt’s cloak to signal him, and he crouched down so she could whisper in his ear. She could be very bold when she wanted to be, but she was still strangely shy about some things when Jaskier was around. “Go in that copse of elms, over there.” He pointed. “Stay within the first line of trees, and call out if you hear the slightest noise. Am I clear?”

The girl nodded and hurried off to attend to her personal business, leaving the two men behind.

Jaskier cleared his throat. “Geralt, do you really think - I mean, you Witchers are a humorless lot, but do you really think they won’t like me?” He stumbled over his words, far from his usual confidence.

Geralt grunted. “Vesemir may have time for you. He has softened with age. Eskel is practical, and he would definitely appreciate the stout you’re bringing him. And Lambert hates everyone, so I wouldn’t take it personally.”

“Gods, how many dour-faced Witchers am I to expect?” Jaskier laughed, but he was clearly nervous.

“Those three, at least. The School of the Wolf has traditions, of which wintering at the Keep is foremost. I wouldn’t be surprised to see other stragglers make their way in, despite our dwindling numbers.” He was keeping his eye on the progress of his royal charge as she disappeared between the trees, her new fur-lined cloak flitting back and forth in the icy breeze.

Jaskier’s mouth flew open, aghast. “That’s it then, that’s how I go. Torn to pieces by a band of cranky mutants.”

Geralt shook his head. “Toss a polished sapphire on a pile of sharp-edged flint and you’re bound to see the difference. But underneath it all, we’re just a bunch of rocks. They’ll get used to you.”

Jaskier seemed pleased, if a little confused, by the metaphor. “I don’t know if I should be flattered that you consider me a precious gem, or insulted that you consider me a rock.”

Geralt shrugged, but said nothing. 

“We should have bought a cart in Ban Ard.” Jaskier continued, wandering over to the Witcher. “That way, we could have brought sufficient alcohol to satisfy every chunk of flint in the castle. And more importantly, we could have taken turns napping rather than sitting in the saddle all day.”

“The trail to Kaer Morhen is too narrow and hazardous,” said Geralt. “There’s no way to know if the path is blocked. It’s better to travel by horseback, single file.”

“So practical,” replied Jaskier, speaking directly into Geralt’s ear. 

The Witcher grasped him by the waist, dragging him closer for a fierce and woefully brief kiss. “There may come a point when I find your whining to be irksome, bard. Yet you continue to push your luck.”

Jaskier thrust his pelvis forward, his interest clearly perceptible through the soft fabric of his breeches. “I am an incredibly lucky man, Witcher. I’ve somehow managed to capture the attention of the most desirable man in the Northern kingdoms.”

“You are a man of very peculiar tastes, Jaskier.” Geralt said. The bard’s doublet was half-unbuttoned, revealing the soft linen of the shirt he wore underneath and the pale skin of his collarbones. It would have been considered shamelessly flirty at court, to show so much skin. Geralt buried his face in the hollow of Jaskier’s neck to breathe in the scent of him. Despite his Witcher mutations, he found himself completely captivated by the bard. Was he broken, in some way? He should have felt nothing.

“I am a man of voracious appetites.” Jaskier reached around Geralt’s waist to clasp the muscular curve of his arse. “I dote most ardently on our little lion cub, but it’s acute torture to be forced to wait two more days before I can get you alone.”

Geralt smiled, being sure to keep an eye on the treeline lest Ciri re-emerge. “The things I will do to you once we reach Kaer Morhen...” He exhaled deeply, planting a kiss on the racing pulse in the troubadour’s throat. “You would sing of them for decades, were I to allow it.”

“Is that a promise?” Jaskier asked, clinging desperately to him.

“I’ll keep you in my bed until you lose track of the days,” Geralt promised. “I’ll ensure you limp everywhere for weeks, if you want it. If you ask for it.”

Jaskier uttered a low moan, his tongue darting out to wet his lips.

Geralt kissed him then, slow and lingering. He had brought guests to Kaer Morhen before, but never for the entire winter. Surely the bard had guessed by now that the spring thaw would not be the end of things, especially if Ciri was as serious about Witcher training as she had professed. Six months, a year, even two. The life of a Witcher was long, and these periods of time were but the passing of a moment. But Jaskier was human, and growing older by the day. How long would it take, Geralt wondered, before the bard grew out of his infatuation and sought the open road once more?

On Geralt’s part, the kiss was bittersweet. For Jaskier, it was simply another kiss. The bard sighed happily as they parted, anticipating all the depraved acts they would accomplish over a long Kaedweni winter. “You filthy beast. Don’t tease me so.”

“I wouldn’t, if you didn’t love it so much.” Geralt nipped at Jaskier’s neck, marveling at how soft and flawless it was. Experience told Geralt he wasn’t averse to having it marked, as long as it was by the right person. The thought was far more pleasant than mourning a farewell so far into the future, and Geralt resolved to enjoy the moment and stop thinking about what might happen later. 

“I love…” Jaskier paused, clearly hesitant to finish his sentence. “…everything and anything you could do to me.”

In the corner of his eye, Geralt sensed movement. He looked toward the trees to see Ciri, staring at them from a distance.

The Witcher coughed, stepping away from Jaskier. “Shit. She’s coming back,” he muttered.

“She’ll have to ride with you for the sake of decency. If you get my meaning.” Jaskier glanced down at the small tent in his breeches, and sighed before turning back toward his horse. “We’ll continue this later, I suppose. You did promise.”

“I always keep my promises,” Geralt assured him, motioning for Ciri to join him on Roach.

The young princess glanced toward Jaskier as he mounted his horse, then turned an amused look at Geralt. “Just a friend?” She asked.

“Perhaps a little more,” Geralt conceded.

“Gross,” she said with a smile, as she stroked Roach’s mane distractedly. The horse snorted in agreement. Geralt was pleased, despite the mild rebuke for the public display of affection. With the famed Queen Calanthe as her grandmother she would hardly grow up to be a shrinking flower, but she was not grown yet. She was still a child, and she had managed to retain that vital fragment of precious innocence. Despite the war and bloodshed, there was still part of her that was unsullied.

“Don’t judge me,” Geralt replied, fondly. “Either of you.” He lifted Ciri back into the saddle and settled behind her.

“I’m not really mad,” Ciri said, as Geralt nudged Roach into a trot. “I’m glad you’ve found such a close companion.”

Geralt’s face grew stony, as he knew nobody would see it. “So am I,” he said.

Four hours until they reached the mountains, then another day until they reached the Witcher’s Keep. And then a couple of months of carnal bliss, if he was lucky. Unless Nilfgaard found them, or the bard grew tired of the inertia. He hoped that Jaskier would still be his friend, once he had spent that much time in Geralt’s company. After all, Jaskier was wrong. Geralt was the lucky one, and he hoped he deserved it.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry to those who were hoping for more smut. I'm going through some hard times IRL and wanted to do something a little fluffy before the whirlwind of porn that will occur as soon as they arrive at the Witcher's Keep. Oh yes, there will be porn.
> 
> Thank you to all the folks who have read and commented on my little ditties so far. <3 to you all! You have really brightened up a dark time for me.


End file.
